


No Reservations

by Faustess



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Aromantic Brock Rumlow, Blow Jobs, Bottom Brock Rumlow, Brock Rumlow Needs a Hug, Casual Sex, Cemetery, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Falling In Love, Hook-Up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Phone Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faustess/pseuds/Faustess
Summary: Clint Barton wasn't really good at saying "no" when he really wanted to be saying "yes," but he wasreallyterrible at keeping his feelings out of casual hook-ups.  Heexcelledat falling in love.Brock Rumlow, on the other hand, was very good at keeping casual sex just that.  He didn't usually have much interest in repeats - or with hanging out before or after sex.  He wasn't trying to be an ass, he just didn't understand all the wining and dining of dating.  Either somebody wants to sleep with you or they don't - what's the big deal?When these two meet, will it get too hot in the kitchen - or will they end up with a table for two?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Brock Rumlow/Jack Rollins, Pepper Potts/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. Lust at First Sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassandrasfisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/gifts).



> This is part of the [Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MarvelReverseBigBang2020). 
> 
> This fic was inspired by [cassandrasfisher's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/pseuds/cassandrasfisher) moodboard. They did all the banner and chapter headings as well. I'm so happy to have been able to write for this pairing! Their ideas and art really got my creative energies going. None of this would have been possible without them!
> 
> [Flightyrock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightyrock/pseuds/flightyrock) and a beta who wished to remain anonymous read through to catch the most grievous of my mistakes - all the rest are my own.

  


Waking up early had to be Brock’s least favorite part of being the owner-chef of a restaurant. He liked the people, figuring out new recipes and flavor combinations, but the very early mornings? That’s why he hired a baking staff to take care of that for him.

Right now, though, he was between buyers for the restaurant, so he had to get up early to go to the produce market before all the really good stuff was picked over. Picked over crap cost just as much as when you got first dibs, so he had to arrive early.

He was proud of what he’d accomplished so far with The Streetwise Boar. And his guidance counselor back in the day had said he’d never go anywhere other than jail with his life. He took particular pleasure in denying reservations to those people who’d told him he’d never amount to anything. Sure, their money was the same as everyone else’s, but that didn’t mean he needed to take it.

This Wednesday morning, though, something - or rather, someone caught his eye. Maybe it was the fact that the guy was smirking and taking a selfie with the eggplants that made Brock notice him. Tall, blue-eyed, and wearing a faded purple t-shirt and jeans, the guy had shoulders that just begged for someone to perch their ankles on them.

“Sending that to your significant other?” Brock asked. He legitimately was trying to buy eggplants for today’s menu. If he could pick up some figurative eggplant on the side, that’d be a definite perk of being an early bird.

“Huh?” the guy startled. “Sorry, can you repeat that? I had my aid turned down and wasn’t paying attention.” Now the guy’s eyes were on Brock, shifting between his eyes and lips.

“Name’s Brock. I asked if you were sending that pic to your boyfriend.” In for a penny, in for a pound - might as well get shut down all at once.

“Oh, no - just some friends. I thought they’d think it was funny. And so they know I’m here at o-dark-hundred getting stuff for their stupid party.” He stuck out his hand, “I’m Clint, nice to meet you, Brock.”

“You a caterer or something?” Brock asked and then placed his order for the eggplants as well as the onions, zucchinis, carrots, and fingerling potatoes that he’d already looked at.

Clint shook his head, “Nah, I’m just buying flowers. They’re having a big party and I was volun-told to pick up the flowers. They’ve got somebody else coming in to arrange them, but they need something to arrange, you know?”

Brock nodded and smiled to himself. “I’d like to arrange you,” he murmured.

When he looked toward Clint again, he was rubbing the back of his neck with a light blush across his cheeks. “I – uh- read lips.”

“Good to know.” Brock wasn’t flustered. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like taking this guy out to the alley where he’d parked the restaurant’s van would be a pretty fine reward for waking up so goddamn early. “Want some help with your flower expedition? I’ve only got a couple of other things I need to pick up – and these guys’ll load it for me.”

“Um…” Clint hesitated, “Well, I mean if you want to, sure. You… don’t need to get back right away?”

Grinning, Brock said, “Nah, I’m the boss. The prep staff isn’t going to be in for another hour or so and they won’t have to wait for me to get started.”

“That’s handy,” Clint said with a smile, some of his hesitation fading. “I could totally use a second pair of hands.”

As they headed toward the flowers, Brock stopped to place his fruit order at another stall and walked the rest of the way to the flower section of the market. White plastic buckets filled with a rainbow of flowers and foliage bordered each aisle. Clint slowed down and scrutinized the roses.

“Is it a wedding rehearsal or something?” Brock asked when Clint was looking his way again.

“Nope,” Clint flashed a smile. “It’s a kind of an adult Alice in Wonderland-themed party. I’m looking for white roses, red roses, and then some that are a little of both, so they look kind of like they were painted.”

“’Cause somebody planted white roses by mistake?” Brock laughed. He’d forgotten how many times he’d watched that movie as a kid.

Clint beamed, “Yeah! Exactly!”

As Clint turned back to the flowers, Brock heard him softly humming that ‘Painting the Roses Red’ song to himself. Fucking hell this guy was cute. “What about these?” Brock asked, touching Clint’s elbow.

“Not quite what I was thinking – I want something redder – but that green stuff behind there, that we can use,” Clint said with a nod.

“I’m hearing less florist and more man with a vision,” Brock said with a smile.

Clint laughed, “Yeah, I’m a real flower artiste.”

When Clint leaned in to get ivy ready to transport, he nearly took out a bucket of yellow mini carnations. Clint caught the bucket and Brock caught Clint. Good lord, Clint was all muscle under that faded purple t-shirt. Brock’s lips were just inches away from Clint’s right ear and he murmured, “Careful there Alice.” He couldn’t help the purr in his voice.

At those words, the tops of Clint’s ears blushed scarlet. “Um... thanks for the save.” He didn’t move to put any distance between them.

“Guess it’s a good thing I was here then, huh?” Brock asked, raising an eyebrow and putting his hand on the small of Clint’s back to steer him toward a larger display of roses. “Bet we can find you something over here.”

Clint let him lead them to the other flower vendor. Brock knew he was getting ahead of himself, but the way Clint just unconsciously leaned in really got him going.

Crouching down, Clint sniffed several red roses from different buckets, each a slightly different shade of red. “These are nice.” He offered one to Brock. “A lot of fragrance, but it’s more spicy than floral.”

As Clint sniffed and studied the roses, Brock watched. The look of concentration and the way Clint’s lower lip stuck out ever so slightly when he was thinking was just adorable. Ultimately, Clint chose the deep, blood-red roses, an icy white variety, and one that was white with speckled streaks of crimson.

“A successful trip for both of us then.” Brock licked his lips. “Feel like celebrating?”

* * *

“Feel like celebrating?” Brock asked and raised an eyebrow.

Clint knew he should say no. Natalia would laugh and call him a tramp. Bucky would just shake his head. But, that jawline and those dark eyes focused on him? Yes, please.

“Depends on what you’ve got in mind,” he hedged.

“Let me help you carry these and the green stuff you bought back to your car. Then – ?” Brock shrugged and let the question hang in the air.

Clint licked his lips, “Yeah, okay.” He liked the attention… and it had been a while, so that cedar undernote in Brock’s cologne combined with his proximity and almost constant physical contact made Clint’s skin tingle with anticipation.

Even as he said the words, he could see the moment when Brock knew he’d made up his mind. The corner of his mouth turned up, self-assured, cocky. A hot guy who didn’t even care who he was – who just wanted him.

“You sure you’re not getting ahead of yourself there, beautiful?” Brock asked, his voice low and teasing. Clint could hear the tone of his voice but was only able to make out the words with lip-reading. Brock glanced meaningfully at the slight bulge in Clint’s pants.

Clint could feel his face flush, hot and red with embarrassment.

Picking up the carefully packed boxes of roses, Brock leaned closer toward his good ear. “Don’t worry, there’s no way I’d let you down, hot stuff. Gonna give you just what you need.” Then Brock bumped him gently with his elbow like he’d told Clint some sort of joke.

Still blushing furiously, Clint walked stiffly in the direction of his car. “I’m parked in that little lot off the alley.”

“Lead the way,” Brock said. Clint could have sworn he also heard him say ‘I’m gonna enjoy the view from back here on the way,’ but he couldn’t be sure about that. Brock did walk a step or two behind him the whole way, though.

The car wasn’t more than a five-minute walk and they set the boxes of flowers on the back seat of the car. Car door still ajar, Clint licked his lips nervously and made eye contact with Brock.

Brock moved in closer and ran his hands down Clint’s sides to rest at his hips and Clint’s cock jumped in response. Brock nipped the side of Clint’s neck under his ear.

An abbreviated gasp escaped Clint’s lips.

“You’re really ready for it, huh, gorgeous?” Brock moved his hand to start stroking the tented denim of Clint’s jeans. “What would you do if I told you that you had to wait for it?”

Clint whined, high and needy, too turned on to be embarrassed.

“How ‘bout you get on your knees and suck me off before I change my mind, then,” Brock suggested, his voice low and raspy, and gave Clint’s cock a meaningful squeeze.

Clint’s hips bucked under Brock’s touch and the other man chuckled low and brought his free hand up, running the pad of his thumb over Clint’s lips. “You can have what you want – just kneel and open up. It’s what you want isn’t it?” Brock ground the hard length between his legs against Clint’s thigh.

Clint nodded and pulled Brock in by the hips, then remembered his words, “Yeah – yes. I want it. Want you.” God, how was he so breathy and desperate already?

Brock licked the edge of Clint’s jaw and bit at his lower lip – not a kiss exactly – and Clint’s nipples hardened in response.

“You like dirty talk?” Brock asked, his lips moving against Clint’s neck, voice a rough purr.

An electric tingle spread from the base of Clint’s skull down his arms and over the tops of his thighs as he nodded.

“You and I are gonna get along just fine then,” Brock murmured and rested both hands on Clint’s shoulders while Clint sank to his knees and sighed with pleasure as he rubbed his cheek against the bulge in Brock’s pants.

Clint moaned when he felt Brock’s fingers in his hair.

“Shh, pretty. Need you to be quiet this time. Christ, you look good like that – on your knees panting for my cock. Go ahead, pretty. Take a taste.”

Clint’s fingers felt thick as he fumbled with the button and zipper of Brock’s fly. When he finally pulled the zipper down, Brock’s tool sprang free, smacking Clint’s chin. He held onto Brock’s hip with one hand, and with the other, he was going to hold on, to keep Brock’s dick steady in his mouth.

“Use that hand to jack off. I want to see how many times you can come before I do.”

Licking the slit at the tip of the shaft bobbing between his lips and nose, Clint looked up and felt another wave of lust when he saw Brock’s pupils blown wide with desire making them look even darker. He moved his head to lick the thick vein on the underside and he shifted on his knees to unfasten his own jeans.

Clint pulled out his own cock and paused to lick his hand for lubrication. Brock caught his wrist and lifting it to his own lips, licked Clint’s palm again. “Get to work, pretty.”

Hand sliding down the shaft of his own cock, Clint took as much of Brock’s length in his mouth as he could and started to bob his head slowly, swirling his tongue from side to side around it. He wanted to make it good – maybe good enough for there to be a next time.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Brock groaned softly. “You feel so good – so good for me.”

Clint’s cock throbbed in his hand at the praise, slicking his palm with pre-come. He moaned around the thick cockhead in his mouth.

“Such a slut – moaning like that while you’re swallowing dick. You get off on it don’t you, baby. Dripping like a faucet, aren’t you?”

His hand slid more easily now, and Clint flicked his wrist when he twisted the knob at the end of his shaft and sucked on the cock in his mouth, trying to pull even more into his mouth, even though it was already hitting the back of his throat.

“A cock like that’s made for fucking – maybe next time I’ll ride it for you. See if it feels as good as it looks.”

Clint came hard and as he grunted and moaned, Brock pulled his head down farther on his cock, pushing past his gag reflex when Clint’s body relaxed after cumming. Still riding aftershocks, Clint kept stroking his oversensitive shaft as instructed.

“Cumming for me? Getting your face fucked? You’re made for this, pretty, aren’t you? So beautiful. Gonna come for me again, pretty? Bet you can.”

Brock’s breath was coming in short pants between words and Clint could feel the tension in Brock’s body and the extra hardness in his dick, signaling that he was close to coming too. Clint’s lips felt wet, sloppy, and bruised.

But Brock had said ‘next time.’ Next time. Cum slicked his palm and Clint groaned, pushed over the edge again by overstimulation and all the imagined promises of what might happen when they got together again. He could feel Brock’s fingers in his hair, tightening and then the splash of cum hitting the back of his throat that he swallowed on reflex.

He could hear Brock breathing heavily above him and felt his fingers slacken their grip on his hair. With an inhaled hiss, Brock slipped out of his mouth. Clint half-expected a barrage of humiliation to follow –this wasn’t his first time going down on a relative stranger.

Instead, when he looked up, he saw Brock watching him, still trying to catch his breath. Brock stroked his cheek once, then gave him a pat. “Come on, on your feet. This isn’t the kind of place you snuggle, pretty.” The words weren’t said unkindly, though.

Brock tucked himself away and zipped up, then gave Clint a hand up and plucked Clint’s phone from his pocket. He looked at Clint challengingly, “Just gonna put in my number so you can hit me up if you want to.”

Clint laughed and cleaned up as best he could, slipping his dick back in his pants where it belonged and zipped up. He pulled the napkin that came with this morning’s coffee off the front passenger seat and wiped his hands. Brock’s cheeks were still flushed, and Clint thought it was pretty adorable on a guy who otherwise had so many rough edges. “Might as well send yourself a text from me so you know who’s trying to make that booty call.”

The challenge on Brock’s face faded into amusement and he chuckled, “Now where’s the fun in that?” He handed back Clint’s phone. “See you around, Clint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main art will be in Chapter 4, so please be patient. :) Feel free to drop a line and let me know what you think!! I'd love to hear from you!


	2. Past Meets Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock and Clint keep meeting up (they're not dates) and Brock starts dreaming about his past with Jack Rollins. What does that mean for his present (and possible future) with Clint?

  


The dreams didn’t start that night, but after the third or fourth time Brock got together with Clint, he started dreaming of Jack. Dreamt that he woke up to Jack stretched out in bed next to him, dressed and ready for work, just watching him sleep.

“What’re you doing, psycho?” Brock grumbled sleepily.

“Nothing. Just thinking I love you. Wanted to make sure you knew that,” Jack said and reached out and stroked Brock’s stubbly cheek.

Back then, Brock had still been on the late shift at the kitchen he worked at, so being woken up made him grouchy, “Great. Newsflash for the ages. Now fuck off and let me sleep.”

He felt Jack shift next to him and press a kiss on his forehead. “Pleasant dreams, Rums.”

Brock grumbled something angry, but inarticulate and turned over to go back to sleep. He’d never seen Jack alive again.

The clawing sensation in his throat woke him up before the cold spot on his pillow from the tears. Brock sat up in bed and wiped at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Staring into the darkness of his room, he mumbled, “Asshole.”

He got up and padded to the second, smaller bedroom that had been Jack’s office… before… well, before. The drawing table where Jack had spent hours working on new tattoo flash designs was just the same as he’d left it when he’d left that morning three years ago on the day of the accident. He’d hung Jack’s clothes in this closet because he hadn’t been able to bear the idea of throwing them away or having some stranger wear them.

“I’m gonna throw this shit out, Jackie. Can’t keep hanging onto it forever, you fucking prick.” The effect of the threat was dulled somewhat by the tenseness in his jaw as he tried not to cry and by the fact that he’d periodically made the same threat many times over the last three years.

That Jack Rollins had died and somehow he hadn’t felt it in that instant – that he’d been woken instead by the phone call later from Jack’s sister. _Why?_ Especially if he was dreaming about Jack now that he’d sort of met somebody? _It wasn’t fair._

Brock went to the closet and fingered the sleeve of the sweatshirt he’d always stolen. It’d been Jack’s favorite and Brock had worn it on bad days even before the accident. It had felt a little bit like being in his arms all day. Only now some of that magic had worn off somehow.

He pulled it off the hanger and pressed his nose into the fabric inhaling nothing but the faded scent of fabric softener. His breath hitched as he inhaled deeply and he exhaled slowly. “Bastard,” Brock mumbled to his dearly departed and walked back to bed with the sweatshirt and tried to fall asleep again holding it to his chest.

The next dream didn’t come until the night he and Clint had sex in a bed.

He couldn’t remember half the things he’d said to Clint. The part he did remember was pretty hot, though. He’d gone over to Clint’s place after work. Clint had answered the door, half-hard already.

Brock had stepped inside, “Happy to see me, pretty?”

The door had hardly even closed before Clint had pressed him up against the wall and started kissing him, nipping at his lips and tracing the seam between them with his tongue. Clint managed to pull himself away just enough to look at him, wide-eyed with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to mob you before you even got your coat off… I mean… hi.”

“Miss me, sweetness?” Brock purred, arms draped around Clint’s neck.

Clint groaned and ground against Brock’s thigh and kissed the side of his neck. “Missed you so much.”

His own cock was very much on board with whatever Clint had planned, but he pushed Clint back just enough to be able to see his whole face at once. “I brought some stuff we had left from the restaurant tonight. Not enough to save for a special tomorrow. If you want it and it’s not weird.”

Clint’s face lit up, “What is it?”

Brock marveled that Clint could switch from wall sex to food so fast without losing much of his erection. Chuckling, he said, “Wild boar bolognese, a salad, and the stuff to fix an over-priced cocktail.”

“No dessert?” Clint asked, almost pouting.

“You already know what’s for dessert,” Brock said and shook his head, mock-scolding, “Greedy, greedy - good thing you’re cute.”

A few moments later, food distributed, Clint looked up, “Does food make this a date?”

Shaking his head, Brock replied, “Nah, this is just leftovers. What do you think? Any good?”

“This is legit the best pasta I’ve ever had. And ‘some salad?’ If it’s got this frilly stuff, it’s fancy,” Clint insisted.

Brock laughed, “It’s frisée. It’s a little bitter to, you know, cut through some of the richness from the boar.”

“Whatever – in my dreams tonight, I’ll be floating on clouds of this stuff.”

Still laughing, Brock said, “You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

“You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t,” Clint replied primly, making Brock choke and cough as he burst out laughing again.

They hadn’t really talked much before and this time wasn’t any different, but it _felt_ different – at least to Brock. He couldn’t even blame it on the bourbon in the cocktails – he’d only brought enough for one each. The knot of loneliness in his chest loosened a little with Clint around.

That night, at home in his own bed, he dreamed of when he and Jack had first started sleeping together – _Christ, they’d been young_ – just out of high school back then.

Jack looked over. “You know when you run your mouth about me being a slut for wanting you so bad? You know that all applies to you too. You want me just as bad.”

“Pft… you wish, pretty boy,” Brock countered and flopped onto his back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling of Jack’s bedroom at his parents’ house.

Rolling over on his side to face him, Jack reached over and traced a line from Brock’s navel to the center of his chest. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. Never thought it could be like this for us, though.”

Jack rubbed a nipple and Brock pushed his hand away. “Quit it, sap.”

“I mean it – I love you. Been so long I don’t remember when I started,” Jack said quietly.

A beat of silence and Brock felt his cheeks burn. “Sure, sure. You’ll be gone as soon as you find a pair of tits that’ll fuck you.”

Shaking his head, Jack moved closer and draped an arm over him. “Nope, too bad. You’re saddled with me forever – or ‘til you tell me to get lost. Gonna keep telling you I love you ‘til you believe it.”

“What if I don’t?”

He could hear sleepiness creeping into Jack’s voice, “Then I’m gonna sit on you and torture you until you do.”

“Yeah?” Brock snorted in disbelief. “You’re gonna do worse than my old man?”

“Mmhm.” Jack was pulling him in close and nuzzling his hair.

“I’d like to see you try,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Before he could blink, Jack was on top of him and Brock felt a flicker of fear that faded when he noticed the fondness in Jack’s expression. Jack sat up, straddling his stomach. “Your dimples are adorable when you smile. …I love the way your hand fits with mine and that you know how to use a slim jim to open my car door when I lock the keys inside.”

Brock scowled. “The fuck is this, Jackie?”

Sitting on top of him, still looking half-asleep, a shit-eating grin spread across Jack’s face. “The thing you hate the most, babe. Hearing nice things about yourself… like that you’re a better cook than my mom. And no matter whether you tell me to fuck off or whatever, you’ll always be the one I loved first.”

“Get off of me and shut up,” Brock shoved at him, without any real effort – or venom in his tone.

Jack laid down next to him and snuggled in, “I can keep going… or you can kiss me if you believe me and we can go to sleep.”

He turned on his side, so they faced each other and scanned Jack’s face, watching for tells to indicate he was joking. When all he saw was drowsy, patient fondness, Brock felt a pleasant tightness in his chest and a lump of emotion at the back of his throat. He leaned in and kissed Jack softly and felt Jack’s arm curl around him.

Brock closed his eyes and he thought Jack had fallen asleep until his arm squeezed just a little. “Go t’ sleep, Rums, you’re thinking too loud. Still gonna love you tomorrow.”

He hadn’t been able to say, ‘I love you.’ Instead, Brock mumbled, “Sweet dreams, Jackie.”

When he woke up from that dream, he’d milled around his apartment, the air feeling too thick in his lungs. _What the hell were these dreams supposed to mean? Since when did he think twice about a dream?_

Brock opened the window and sat on his fire escape, legs dangling over the edge and leaning his arms on the guardrail. Next time, maybe they’d just go to a hotel, they’d done that a couple of times before and he hadn’t had any weird dreams then. The idea didn’t ‘spark joy’ though.

After a few more quick hook-ups at the morning market, he met Clint for a movie. One of the older theaters in the neighborhood was doing double features of older movies on Monday nights through October and he just left an open invitation for Clint to come if he wanted to.

When Clint found him, large popcorn in-hand, and dropped into the seat next to him, he said, “A movie? This is a lot like a date.”

“Nah, I said I was going anyway and if you wanted to come, I wouldn’t mind. That’s not a date.”

Clint just laughed, “Sounds like a date to me.”

“Shows what you know, huh?” he said, but Clint laughed again and perched the popcorn on his knee so they could share.

“I bought my own popcorn, so it’s not a date?” Clint teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Brock grinned. “See? You’re getting it now.”

Still, he wasn’t able to keep from sneaking peeks at Clint during the movie. When Clint reached for his hand in a particularly tense scene, Brock felt something warm unfurl in his chest.

He leaned over and kissed Clint on the cheek. “You wanna leave? It’s not a happy ending.”

Clint shook his head and murmured, “No. I want to see _Beetlejuice_ after this.”

Whispering, Brock said, “Sorry _Reservoir Dogs_ isn’t your thing, pretty.” _Stubborn…_ , he thought fondly.

“No – I knew it wouldn’t be when I invited myself along,” Clint said with his lopsided grin. “But I wanted to see you.” Clint bit his lip, grinned, and squeezed Brock’s hand.

Brock’s breath caught and his chest constricted pleasantly. “After the movie, you want to come back to my place?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d realized he’d said them, and Brock was surprised with himself that he didn’t regret them.

Clint blinked for a second. “Really? You’re serious?” His whole face lit up when he smiled. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

He wasn’t surprised, though, when Clint fell asleep halfway through the second movie and ended up all but carrying the half-asleep guy home. “C’mon, Clint. You need to wake up so I can give you the tour.”

Clint’s eyes fluttered open and slowly came into focus. “This is _your_ apartment.”

“Yeah.” Brock shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll call you a cab if that’s not okay anymore.”

“No! I’m good. I just need to wake up. Mrs. O’Neill’s baby was crying again last night and kept me up. I swear to god I need to insulate the walls better.” Clint yawned wide enough that his jaw cracked.

Brock shook his head. “Don’t be a dumbass. Take off your shoes and coat. I got a new toothbrush in the drawer in the bathroom. You can just sleep.”

“But you called, so I should be ready to go or something,” Clint protested.

“You’re definitely ‘or something.’” Brock stepped closer and helped Clint take off his coat. He felt a little sick that Clint thought the only reason he’d call was for sex. Though why would he think otherwise? Brock _had_ emphasized the no-strings angle. “Take off your shoes, clean up, and get in bed. The bedroom’s across the hall from the bathroom. The other room’s just… well, I don’t use it much.” He pointed Clint in the right direction and watched him shuffle down the hall.

He thought about watching tv and decided against it and picked up one of his Nora Roman novels from the shelf under the DVDs. Some of them, he’d torn off the covers for being too ‘frou-frou,’ but read them anyway. The crime and suspense ones were his favorites and he generally left the covers on those. He read the others, too, though, about families coming back together and people reconnecting with an old flame.

He couldn’t relate to the romance, but there was something attractive in those happy endings – not that there would be any tense, but gradual reunions with _his_ family. His mother was gone, grandma dead too, just last year, and father still alive and kicking, which all added up to a hard no at reuniting. Jack had teased him sometimes about them, but they were something Brock had shared with his grandma – and she’d gotten him hooked.

He wasn’t sure how many times he’d read about the lives and loves of the MacKinnon brothers over the last five or six years. They were his grandma’s favorites, though, and he’d read them aloud to her when her eyes got too bad to read on her own.

Brock had just gotten to the part where Cole MacKinnon was going to see Melodie Sanders again for the first time since high school when he heard a shuffle from down the hall.

Clint stood where the hall opened into his living room, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He braced himself against the wall with one and rubbed his eyes with the other. “You coming to bed?”

“I thought I’d let you fall asleep first. …You’ve been waiting for me?” Brock asked. Honestly, he hadn’t figured out what he was going to do. Maybe just fall asleep reading on the couch. He’d never slept in that bed with anyone but Jack.

Clint nodded and yawned again. “It’s weird to sleep in your bed without you. Please?”

Clint was such a delicious combination of cute and sexy that Brock tossed his book aside. “Yeah, okay, fine.” He stood up and walked over, grabbing Clint’s free hand and stealing a quick kiss. “C’mon you. Bed.”

Clint let himself be led back to the bedroom and immediately flopped back into bed, burrowing under the covers. Watching the sliver of Brock visible in the bathroom mirror, Clint mumbled, “Not gonna take long is it?”

“Nah, just give me a second and I’ll be right there,” Brock said around his toothbrush. A few minutes later, his bathroom ministrations complete, he crawled into bed where Clint had already turned over and fallen asleep, taking most of the covers with him.

He tried tugging away the covers gently so he could get enough to cover his ass - _thank you Clint for taking up in the goddamn center of the bed_. When that didn’t work, Brock studied the back of Clint’s head and the lines of the tendons in his neck for a moment before curling up behind, spooning him.

Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to Clint, but he’d never literally just slept with anyone other than Jack – in their bed no less. _Please let this be okay with you, Jack_. Brock rested his hand on Clint’s hip and his forehead on the top of Clint’s shoulder. To his surprise, Clint lifted his elbow and tucked Brock’s hand underneath it, pinning it in place, and mumbled something sleepily incoherent.

Brock kissed Clint’s shoulder blade once and closed his eyes feeling more relaxed than he expected to. Maybe it was just because Clint smelled so good. He drifted off to sleep trying to analyze which specific scents came from shampoo, aftershave, pomade, etc.…

The next day was Monday, the only day the restaurant was closed, but Brock still woke up panicked that his alarm hadn’t gone off before remembering it was his day off. He woke up alone in bed. _Whatever, no big deal._

Shoving the blankets aside, he got up, rinsed his mouth, and took a shower. As he toweled off, though, he smelled coffee… and… vegetable oil… like from making pancakes? _What the hell?_

Towel wrapped around his waist, Brock went to investigate and where the hallway met the main living area of his small apartment, he saw a tall man in his kitchen cooking breakfast of all things. His shoulders relaxed, moving easily to flip the pancakes to turn them even though it was a cast iron skillet.

The food smelled fantastic. Nobody cooked for him – not since… “Jack?” Brock realized he’d said it aloud when he saw those shoulders tense, elbows drawing in as if to protect the ribs from a blow to the side. Brock wished his voice hadn’t sounded so hopeful.

“Nope, still Clint,” Clint’s attempt to sound light-hearted failed.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Brock said as he walked into the kitchen space. “I- ”

“Really, it’s fine. No explanation needed. Happens to me all the time.” Clint’s words were too hurried, too clipped. “I just made some breakfast. Nothing fancy – I didn’t whip up a quick jam or broil pineapple or anything.”

 _Ouch_ – weekend brunch was their most profitable service time at the restaurant. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever said so to Clint or not. Probably… because Clint was easy to talk to.

“What are you doing? I didn’t even put out for you last night,” he’d meant it to sound joking, but it came out sounding defensive.

Clint turned to face him. He was already dressed in the clothes he’d worn the night before. “I thought, since I like you, that I’d try to do something nice for you since you’ve brought over dinner a couple of times. But you know, whatever.” He yanked the oven mitt off his hand and thrust it at Brock. “Finish it yourself. I hope you and your real boyfriend have a great life.”

“Clint, it’s not like that,” Brock struggled to explain, trailing after Clint as he strode purposefully to the door and grabbed his shoes and coat.

“Don’t care, Brock. It’s your life. I’m just the booty call. Sorry I overstepped. Don’t call me again.” The tendons and muscles in Clint’s jaw clenched and twitched with suppressed emotion.

And then Clint was gone, leaving Brock staring at his apartment door for… he didn’t know how long until the smell of burning pancake snapped him out of his shock. He opened the windows to air out the apartment and got dressed.

He couldn’t bear to throw the food away, but he couldn’t eat it either, not now. So, Brock wrapped the already cooked pancakes and put them in the freezer, and put the rest of the batter in the fridge. At least he could have a cup of coffee. He stared at his coffee pot and willed himself to wake up. This had to be a dream like the others.

The whole morning played out over and over in his mind. He didn’t think he could drink the coffee either. “Fuck,” he said to himself, rubbing a hand over his face.

Brock walked back to Jack’s office and shoved open the door, the knob banging against the wall, leaving a dent. He started pulling shirts off their hangers onto the floor, blinking back tears until the closet was empty. Then he shoved all the clothes into a few trash bags and tossed them next to his front door and poured a travel cup of coffee. He knew where he was going today.

His first stop was the thrift store where he’d found that gray cable knit sweater for Jack, a gift for their first Christmas together in the city. He dropped off the bags with a bored twentysomething and left before he could change his mind.

Then Brock drove up to Woodlawn. He needed to have a conversation.

An hour later he arrived at the cemetery. He’d stopped on the way for flowers and with a pang, wished Clint was there to give him advice on what would last in the cold weather they were heading into. Instead, he’d asked the clerk at the florist’s, who tried their hardest to sell him yellow chrysanthemums, which Brock detested. Instead, he’d bought an arrangement of brightly colored leaves with sticks of red berries with a few yellow roses because Jack had liked them.

Carrying the arrangement from the parking lot, Brock dragged himself toward the Rollins family plot where Jack lay beside his grandparents and an uncle who’d died even younger than he had. Brock knelt and cleared away the thin layer of leaves from the headstones before placing his arrangement and giving one of the roses to Jack’s grandmother as an afterthought.

“I brought you the terrible cigarettes you like too,” he said quietly. This early, it was still mostly old people and they seemed to understand if someone was talking to their deceased friends or loved ones. Brock lit a cigarette for himself from the pack and set the rest of the pack along with the cheap black Bic lighter on top of the headstone. “These are the fucking worst Jack. How the fuck did you smoke these for what? Fifteen years at least, ‘cause we were in junior high when you started.” He glanced at the late Grandma Rollins’ grave. “Sorry, ma’am. Might want to cover your ears. I gotta have a talk with your grandson today.”

Brock tried to separate the tangle of emotions he felt into something he could understand and translate into words. He stared at the ground, realizing the grass was already starting to turn brown and die back for the winter. There must have been a frost a few nights ago.

The chill of the late autumn air started to seep between his layers of clothes. Brock stamped his feet shoving his free hand into his pocket to keep warm. “I guess I should have told you I met somebody… but I didn’t realize how much I liked him. It snuck up on me, you know? I mean I don’t even know his last name. I’ve been so busy with the restaurant that I didn’t realize I was lonely either. When I met him, he was convenient… and cute. Clint just kind of fit into my life. I guess I must’ve fit into his, ‘cause he kept agreeing to get together.”

He sighed and ground the cigarette butt into the damp ground with the toe of his shoe and tapped another out of the pack, lit up, then continued, “Maybe I shouldn’t have let him come over, but it was close to the theater and… I just wanted to see what it would be like. He’s not coming back though.”

Brock took a deep drag off the cigarette. His lungs would ache tomorrow, but whatever. “It was only me and you there. This morning when he was making breakfast… for a second I thought it was you.”

His eyes stung again, and Brock felt the sting inside his nose too and kicked Jack’s headstone without much force. “Asshole, I’m done crying for you.” It was a lie, and if Jack was conscious wherever he was, he’d know it too. “Took your clothes to the thrift store today.” He ran his fingers through his hair, fighting back the wave of regret he felt. “And I deleted his number out of my phone. I called him your name by accident.” Brock’s shoulders slumped. “He told me not to call him again. I’m not gonna be that guy, so I won’t. No big, right?”

He tilted his head up toward the sky and wondered again how something so shitty could happen on such a beautiful day. Exhaling a stream of smoke at the sky, he added, “I really liked him. Maybe it’s dumb, but I kept waiting for you to give me a sign that it was okay to have him around.” He tossed the cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with more force than necessary. “Goddamn it, I’m as big an idiot as you are…. I got a new produce buyer for the restaurant though, so I can visit more often,” he said.

Brock’s face twisted for a second and he closed his eyes. “I’m still not gonna tell you to get lost. You’re stuck with me – God knows why I stick with you.” He kicked the headstone again harder than he meant to and then patted the top of the stone and felt the loss of the comfort Jack’s clothes usually brought like a slug to the chest.

Squeezing the top of the headstone, Brock tore himself away. “I gotta go… I’ll try to come out here more often.” He turned to leave and realized he still had the travel cup of coffee. “Almost forgot. This is for you too. See you around.”

After setting down the cup, nestling it next to the floral arrangement, Brock straightened up and walked back to his car alone. He nodded to an elderly woman on his way to the parking lot. Arriving at his car, he sat, staring as the last leaves of autumn danced in the breeze.

He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed when he finally started the engine, but his hands burned as they slowly warmed up and his appetite returned with a vengeance, so he stopped at a greasy spoon kind of diner for lunch – 11:30 was close enough for him – before returning completely to his day-to-day, Clint-less life.


	3. Surprises Good and Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint daydreams about phone sex with Brock while making breakfast and gets a rude awakening. Then he tries to shift gears and adapt to single life again.

  


Listening to that ‘oldies’ station that played ‘the best of the 70s, 80s, 90s and today,’ Clint sang softly to himself as he started making pancakes – one of his specialties – and hoped as an afterthought that Brock wasn’t on a low-carb kick. This morning, waking up with his nose tucked into the crook of Brock’s neck, Clint was positive he was catching feelings; very sentimental, sappy feelings. Natalia was right – he wasn’t very good at casual hookups, falling in love too easily.

They hadn’t even _done_ anything last night, but Clint was feeling happy anyway and wanted to surprise Brock with breakfast. He figured maybe afterward he’d clean up the mess he’d made and see if Brock wanted to go somewhere. A walk someplace sounded nice – they could catch the last of the autumn color – and just kind of be together. Not a date, not really, since the purpose was to do something he wanted to do anyway, just with Brock there too.

God, he was even starting to try to rationalize all the not-a-dates. Bucky had stared at him, unimpressed, when he’d tried to explain how Brock bringing over dinner a couple of months ago hadn’t been a date. “Bucky, it’s not a date if you’re already home,” blushing as he said it because it sounded like the flimsy excuse that it was.

But Clint didn’t care what his friends thought as long as he got to spend time with Brock. The first time meeting him had been so hot. Afterward, Clint had sent him a few photos of the roses after they were set up in Steve and Bucky’s club, Howl, for their Wonderland event. He’d worked the blooms into pathway barriers that partitioned off different areas of the party and winding with greenery around the support columns. When he snapped the photos, he’d been careful not to take shots that clearly identified where he was… or what kind of establishment their club was.

Having only just met, he hadn’t wanted to scare Brock away… or to get the wrong idea. Clint had liked the kind of power dynamic thing they’d had that morning. Even thinking about it now sent a tingling thrill up and down his thighs.

Later that night, though, Brock had sent him a photo of the Tea Party area with the message, “Very nice work, pretty. Gorgeous in here.” Then a few moments later, he’d sent a follow-up photo of the invitation with his last name redacted. “Didn’t want you to think I was a creep.”

Laughing to himself, Clint had responded, “Glad you approve. :b” Then, a moment later, before he’d thought better of it, “Having fun?”

“Guy with bunny ears and a tail just served tea. Crossing that off my bucket list - lol”

Imagining Brock’s eyes moving over someone else’s body had sent a flicker of jealousy through Clint, but then he realized that Brock was texting _him_ from an invitation-only event at one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs in the city. The man had time for _texting at a sex club_. Clint’s self-confidence had never rebounded so fast in all his life.

Clint realized that he’d just been staring at his phone with a sappy grin on his face. Not good to be crushing on the guy who took him to the alley for a blowjob. Then again, none of his other questionable hook-ups had ever asked for his number – or tried to contact him later if they had.

Brock had texted again, “Hell of a setup they’ve got in here tonight.” There was a pause and Clint had stared at the waving three dots showing Brock was sending another message. He’d sat down on his couch, rubbing his half-hard cock through his sleep pants because Brock was thinking about _him_ while he was there with all those other beautiful people around him. “Kind of wish you were here. Could go for a second round, right about now.” Those damn wavy three dots again. “Want to see?”

If there had been a big, red ‘YES’ button on his phone, Clint would have probably broken it by slamming it then. Instead, he’d texted, “Yes please.”

“So polite - one sec.”

Clint had been able to hear those words, _‘So polite,’_ in Brock’s voice, almost like he’d really said them. He’d squeezed his now fully hard erection through his pants and watched the circle of dampness from his pre-come soak through the fabric.

A photo appeared in their message log. Brock was in one of the private booths lounging back on one of the black leather sofa-like benches. The room had been decorated with playing card motifs, keeping with the party’s theme. Wearing a black and charcoal grey plaid suit, black vest over a pale blue shirt. A top hat with an ace of spades tucked into the hatband and a thick silver watch chain over his stomach had completed the look. Brock lounged back, one leg straight ahead of him on the bench, the other splayed to the side, not bothering to conceal the way his pants tented in the front. In fact, that was probably the point of this pic.

“Sweet lord,” Clint had said aloud to himself and shoved his lounge pants down over his thighs to stroke himself properly, then had remembered he still needed to respond. With shaking hands, he’d texted back, “omg Brock – you look amazing.”

“want to see you too pretty.” Brock had replied and followed up with, “if you’re ok w it.”

Blushing, Clint had leaned back and tried to hold his phone steady, which had been difficult because his hands were shaking so badly. He sent a photo of the tops of his bare thighs and his rosy, fully hard cock leaking onto the faded purple t-shirt that still covered most of his stomach. How long had it been since he’d sent someone a dick pic? Longer than his friends thought, that was for sure.

“miss me, huh?” was rapidly followed by, “call me. want to hear you pretty”

Clint had stood up so fast that he almost tripped over his pants as they fell around his ankles. He wanted to move this to the bedroom because there were fewer distractions there. His fingers had felt thick and clumsy as he tried to get his phone to cooperate and make the call.

“Hey, pretty. Wasn’t sure if you’d call or not, but I thought you might be up for it, so I thought what the hell.” Brock’s voice had been rough at the edges the way Clint remembered from that morning, but warmer too in a way that had nothing to do with the slight breathiness from the man on the other end of the line.

Clearing his throat, Clint said, “Yeah, guess you could say I’m up for it,” and laughed at the double entendre. He sighed and sank back onto his bed, knees splayed.

“You sound so good right now. Like music to my ears,” Brock had replied. “Been thinking about you all day.” Clint thought he’d heard a zipper, but that might have been his imagination.

He couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped before he could put words together to respond.

“It’s okay, go ahead and take care of yourself. I can tell you worked hard on this – it’s fucking gorgeous in here.” Clint gave his cock a firm squeeze and a preliminary stroke before Brock had finished speaking. “You wanted me to see it.”

Basking in the praise, hand still on his cock, Clint had said, “Yeah. I imagined you seeing it and knowing it was me – that I’d been there… I couldn’t stand you not seeing it, so I sent the photo.”

“You think about us being here together tonight?” Brock had asked, teasing.

Clint had pulled the lube from his nightstand drawer and let the slick liquid cover his palm before thrusting into his fist. “God!” he’d called out unbidden, biting back a sharp cry to answer the question, and short of breath had said, “Yeah, didn’t think it’d be like this though.”

“Come on, pretty – let me hear you. I get off on knowing how much you like it. Let me hear all those sounds you wanted to make this morning,” Brock had murmured.

The ragged sound of Brock’s breathing had gone like a jolt straight to Clint’s cock and he moaned again, louder this time, ending with a keening whine. He’d heard the sharp hiss of Brock inhaling. “Christ you’re sexy, Clint.”

Clint flicked his wrist and gave his cock a twist on the downstroke. Brain to mouth filter mostly gone at this point, he’d said, “Wish I could taste you right now.”

Brock’s groan in response had made Clint come hard enough for him to feel it splash his cheek. Blissed out, Clint hadn’t quite heard what Brock had said next, just registering praise and the man’s stuttering breath.

“Mm,” Clint hummed, “I wanna be able to kiss your thighs and just take my time biting and kissing and leaving my mark there.” He’d imagined Brock’s brown eyes, their pupils blown, watching him. His cock had tried lazily to stir again. He’d been tired, though, and feeling languid, so he hadn’t encouraged it. Instead, he’d mumbled drowsily, “Maybe take a shower with you just so I can touch you everywhere.”

Brock had huffed a half-laugh, “Bet you’d like that, huh?”

“Mm-hm,” Clint had hummed agreeably. “Tell me what you’re doing?”

There’d been a brief pause, but then the rumble of Brock’s voice had been back in his ear, “My shirt’s rucked up. Got a hand in my pants, thinking about the way you sound and the way your mouth feels.” Clint heard a sharp ha! exhalation and another groaning hum before Brock said anything else. Brock had sounded breathless when he spoke again. “Getting distracted thinking about seeing you naked, taking a shower.”

A series of soft moans had been punctuated at the end by a panting, “Mm, yeah…”

Clint had felt another wave of sensation up and down his legs at that but gave Brock a moment to wind down before saying anything else right away.

Brock had broken the silence, saying, “Glad you called.” His voice had a low buzz of satisfaction humming along its edge.

Smiling to himself, Clint had replied, “Glad you asked me to. …Can I see you again?” Even knowing that Brock couldn’t see him, Clint had licked his lips and bitten his lip.

With a low chuckle, Brock had said, “I’ll be at the market Thursday and Saturday. You seeing me depends on whether you show up or not.”

* * *

Clint smelled his pancake on the verge of burning, snapped back to the present, and flipped it, humming happily to himself. Yeah, he’d shown up and the past few months had been fantastic. He had no regrets at all… other than that he still didn’t know Brock’s last name – a fact that always made Natalia roll her eyes. She’d stopped asking if they’d gotten to that point yet.

But Brock had been to his apartment a few times and now he’d spent the night – slept over – at Brock’s place. Full names had to be just around the corner. _Maybe I’ll bring it up after breakfast_ , Clint thought to himself, then grinned as he looked out the window at the building across the alley.

He turned the pancake he was cooking out onto the serving plate and started another, floating on good vibes and Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” on the radio. From the bedroom, he could hear the sounds of Brock waking up and moving around. When he heard the shower start, Clint pushed the brew button on the coffee machine.

The pancakes were almost finished. He’d start some scrambled eggs when Brock came out. Clint was so caught up in his good mood as he bopped around the small kitchen area that he almost missed it when Brock stepped out in nothing but a towel.

“Jack?” Brock’s voice was so soft and wistful that Clint felt guilty at the wave of nausea he felt in response.

“Nope, still Clint,” he said, trying desperately to figure out what was going on and what he should do. Brock had never said he had a boyfriend. Didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d be waiting around for somebody to come back.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Brock said, walking into the kitchen. “I- ”

Clint shook his head and refused to look at Brock. “Really, it’s fine. No explanation necessary. Happens to me all the time.” He made bad decisions all the time about who to trust and who he fell in love with just happened to be right at the top of the pile of mistakes he’d made during his life. “I just made some breakfast. Nothing fancy – it’s not like I whipped up a quick jam or broiled pineapple or anything.”

“What are you doing? I didn’t even put out for you last night,” Brock said, holding his towel up with one hand. Clint couldn’t tell if he was kidding or being defensive – was he pissed off that Clint thought it was okay to mess around in his kitchen?

Clint turned to face him, so glad he’d decided to get dressed already. He’d be doing the walk of shame back home, but at least he wouldn’t have to go hunting for his pants now after this fiasco. “I thought, since I like you, that I’d try to do something nice for you since you’ve brought over dinner a couple of times. But you know, whatever.” He yanked the oven mitt off his hand and thrust it at Brock. “Finish it yourself. I hope you and your real boyfriend have a great life.” _You could have told me you had an open relationship or whatever. I’ve been lied to like that before._

“Clint, it’s not like that,” Brock said, gesturing broadly, trailing after him as Clint made a beeline to the door, grabbing his shoes and coat along the way.

“Don’t care, Brock. It’s your life. I’m just the booty call. Sorry I overstepped. Don’t call me again.” Clint could feel the tension headache already starting in his temples. He walked out, closing the door behind him, proud – in a miserable kind of way – that he hadn’t slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Thank God he hadn’t run into Natalia when he’d gotten home that day. He just walked from Brock’s straight home. The walk had given him some time to think and now he wished he hadn’t just gone off on Brock. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation.

When he got home, Clint showered and pulled on the clothes he’d slept in the night before last – they were at the top of the dirty clothes basket. He’d have to do laundry sooner or later, but he also didn’t want to run into Natalia, Steve, or Bucky right now.

He was tired of being their disaster friend, tired of this cycle of falling for someone, getting his hopes up that they felt the same way, and being disappointed – over and over again. And he knew that Natalia, Pepper, Steve, and Bucky had all been through their share of relationship BS before finding a long-term partner, but right now, it just didn’t feel fair.

Who was this Jack person anyway? Brock seemed like he was pretty much always available. He always used the same phone, didn’t make excuses to avoid going out on specific days. He’d only cancelled once in the months they’d known each other because somebody at his restaurant had gotten cut or something and he’d needed to fill out worker’s compensation paperwork.

Instead, Brock had called, put him on speaker, and filled out the paperwork while Clint had told him about whatever the hell he’d been up to since they’d gotten together last. See? It’s shit like that that had made him think they were more than just fuckbuddies.

At least they weren’t so close yet that Brock had spare deodorant or anything like that here, but he did have his own toothbrush. There wasn’t any of that significant other’s stuff to return. Clint wished he had stopped to listen. Or at least not burned all his bridges right there and then, that he’d said something like, ‘I’m really upset right now – can we talk about this later when I’m ready to listen to you?’

After pulling the comforter off his bed, Clint pulled it around himself and laid down on the couch and stared at the black, turned-off TV across the room. Maybe it was worse not having any stuff to return – those meant there were at least artifacts of a relationship, proof it’d happened.

When Natalia texted him, Clint had texted back – his obligatory proof of life after not coming home last night. He’d call her when he was ready to feel better. She didn’t play the pity party game and usually she could tell if he was up for an ‘I told you so’ or not. Steve and Bucky were good friends, but he’d known Natalia longer – she felt more like a sister to him than a best friend.

Clint let himself mope for three full days, then aired out his apartment despite the frosty chill in the air that had seeped in, pulling autumn into winter. After airing out and a shower, he washed his small mountain of laundry and went out for coffee with Bucky to catch up. The break-up routine was one he’d established about five years ago when he’d broken up with Bobbi Morse.

The break-up routine consisted of five parts. First, Clint allowed himself three days to wallow in misery and self-pity, but only three days. Next, he aired out his apartment for at least fifteen minutes no matter what time of year it was, to let the bad vibes escape. Then a shower, because you can’t properly be miserable if you’re taking time to bathe every day or two. The fourth thing was doing a chore he’d put off during his pity party, and lastly, do something outside of his apartment with a friend.

Was it bad that he had a break-up routine? Yeah, maybe, but it helped give him some perspective, and allowing the three days gave him time to think about all the what-ifs and see if there was anything he could – or should – do about the situation. The framework helped.

This time, he’d decided (very reluctantly) that maybe his friends had been right and that if Brock had wanted a deeper relationship, that he would’ve at least told Clint his last name. He wasn’t ready to delete Brock’s number out of his phone yet though, because it was evidence that they’d had _something_ together. Clint didn’t call, though, either. If it’d just been a situation where it’d been easier for Brock to hook up with him than find somebody new, Brock would have moved on by now anyway.


	4. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sunday brunch again where Clint, Natalia, Steve, and Bucky (sometimes Pepper too) take time from their busy schedules to be together and hang out as friends.

A few weeks later, Clint rubbed his eyes and stirred from where he’d fallen asleep on his couch. The loud, pounding he’d heard in his dream, though had not gone away and he slowly got up to answer the door. He banged his shin on the coffee table but didn’t trip over it - _winning_. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

Sliding the chain free and turning the deadbolt, Clint peered blearily into the hall and yawned. “What?”

Natalia folded her arms. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

 _Probably_. “What am I being accused of forgetting?” Clint asked and rolled his neck, trying to get rid of the kink in his neck. “C’mon, Nat – I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“It’s Sunday?” Nat raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Clint wracked his sluggish brain for what she might be talking about and came up empty.

Nat sighed, “Brunch, Clint. Coffee and breakfast specials that aren’t available during the rest of the week? Smothered French toast with peach compote?”

His stomach rumbled, “Really? It’s Sunday already? I thought – ” He checked his phone. Sure enough. “When’s our reservation?”

“Eleven. It’s 10:30 now and it’ll take us ten minutes to walk there. Steve and Bucky already left so no one would steal our table. You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready.” She stepped past Clint and closed the door behind her. “Go – now! Move!”

Clint drifted toward his bathroom, his feet propelled him out of habit rather than wakefulness. He drifted through his morning routine half-awake and came out, dressed a few minutes later.

“Your shirt’s on backwards, Clint,” Natalia pointed out. “And I made coffee – it’s in the travel mug on the counter.”

After wrestling his arms back into his t-shirt and turning it around, Clint grabbed for the mug and carefully sipped so he wouldn’t burn his tongue. Natasha waited patiently for him to make some headway with his mistress, Caffeine, before standing to leave. “Let’s get moving – Bucky and Steve are already there, and they just texted me that they’ve been seated.”

When they were nearly there, Clint was feeling a bit more alert and he asked, “Have we been to this place before?”

“Steve and Bucky have, but I haven’t – The Streetwise Boar?” Natalia raised her eyebrows.

Clint shook his head, “Been past, but haven’t been in. It always smells fantastic, though.”

“I’ve heard a lot of great reviews, so I’m intrigued,” Natalia said and held the door for Clint.

Inside, they were able to find Steve and Bucky quickly enough. Today, Natalia’s girlfriend, Pepper, had joined them. When Natalia and Clint got closer, Pepper stood up to give Nat a quick peck on the lips. “I missed you, so I’m crashing your brunch date.”

Natalia laughed and returned the kiss, “It’s not crashing when you’ve got a standing invitation, Pepper. I’m glad you were able to make it this week.”

Clint sat down carefully so he didn’t knock over Bucky’s mimosa. _Who puts stuff like that so close to the edge of the table?_ He made it into his chair successfully without incident and then bumped the table when he scooted his chair in. Nothing fell over, though the glasses and cups all sloshed threateningly.

Nat and Pepper took their seats after Clint was situated, which was probably smart on their part even if he didn’t want to admit it. As he started scanning the menu, Clint cleared his throat, “So what’s good here?”

“They’ve got bottomless mimosas and bloody marys – as many as you can drink in an hour and a half,” Bucky offered.

“Ooo… this place is a winner in my book, then,” Clint said with a grin. “Bottomless mimosa and a French press coffee if they come back.”

“If it matters to you, I’m having the ham, egg, and smoked mozzarella cheese on challah bread. There’s a drizzle of basil pesto,” Steve said and kissed his fingertips. “It’s so good, I didn’t even look at the menu this time.”

Chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes with bacon. French toast with lightly roasted blood oranges and fresh raspberries – side of Virginia ham. But there was also a wild boar pulled pork sandwich with a melon salad. And bananas foster French toast with dulce de leche and caramel sauce, side of bacon. _How was he supposed to decide?_

Clint was just about to ask whether anyone else would try the fried deviled eggs if he ordered them when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“You must get this a lot, but… are you Nora Roman? You look just like her,” _Brock_ said to _Natalia_ , loud and clear enough for Clint to make out over the background noise in the restaurant.

Natalia smiled politely, “That’s me – are you a fan?”

“Yeah – a big fan. It’s a toss-up between _Lady Law_ and _The Angel Fell_ for which one’s my favorite, though. I didn’t introduce myself – Brock Rumlow – this is my place. This is a real honor! Whatever you want, it’s on the house, okay?”

Part of Clint died. He could feel Brock’s hand on the back of his chair and hear the smile in Brock’s voice. Clint was in his restaurant and he’d come over to say hi to Natalia. Sure, they hadn’t gone beyond hooking up, but it was a steady hookup. At least it had been until a couple of weeks ago.

Natalia turned to smile at Pepper, then looked back at Brock who was standing right behind him. _Couldn’t Brock tell who he was from behind?_

“As long as my girlfriend doesn’t mind, thank you, Chef,” Natalia said, squeezing Pepper’s hand.

 _It wasn’t fair._ Clint stared at the words on the menu and reread the description of the ‘Fiorentina’ style eggs benedict until they made sense. He was overreacting. He just needed a moment to pull himself together, to breathe for a few minutes.

“Hey pal, what’re you – Clint?”

Racking his brain for a flippant remark, Clint looked up and was surprised by the look of pure astonishment on Brock’s face. “Hey, Brock.”

Brock’s usually confident attitude was temporarily displaced by shock. Blinking, he looked back at the order pad in his hand, then back at Clint. “Do you know what you want? No – you know what? I’ll fix you something off the menu. Just for you.” He nodded to himself, glanced at Clint one more time, and hurried back to the kitchen.

Clint stared at the door between the restaurant’s dining room and the kitchen.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until Bucky cleared his throat and elbowed him. “I didn’t know you knew Rumlow.”

“What?” Clint asked, feeling stupid.

Across the table, Natalia’s expression shifted from something like the cat who found the mouse toward sympathy. “You and Steve knew him before any of us did, so if anyone was holding out on the rest of us, it was the two of you.”

Steve shook his head, grinning, and said, “Leave me out of it. I’m not risking my apple wood-smoked mozzarella on this kind of nonsense.”

Pepper and Natalia fixed their sights on Bucky then, who raised his hands, “Fine! Fine! We met at one of those small business meetings the New York Chamber of Commerce puts together - maybe a year or so ago. He came into the club maybe a year ago, we said hi. You know, that kind of thing. I knew he was a chef, but I didn’t tell the rest of you. Guilty.”

Clint couldn’t help but smile a little at that and decided to open up a little bit. “I’ve only ever had a few dinners from here, but I didn’t know this was his restaurant.” _Or his last name._ He tried to shrug it off, “We got together a few times, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Natalia said, one eyebrow raised.

Further questioning was derailed by the waiter returning to get Clint and Natalia’s drink orders, and bringing refills on the rest of the party’s mimosas, as well as fresh French press coffee for the table. When the waiter left, Pepper changed the subject with a funny story about a client she’d had during the week and Clint thought maybe he could relax a little.

* * *

In the kitchen, Brock tested the food being prepared by the sous chef and other kitchen staff. He examined the dishes going out to the tables, making sure everything was up to par before they went to the tables. He’d put in the orders for the rest of the VIP table. He’d intended to make Nora Roman’s meal himself, but Clint was here _with Nora Roman_. There wasn’t a clearer sign in the world for him not to fuck this up. This might be the only chance he had to apologize to Clint for their misunderstanding.

Brock knew it wasn’t all his fault, but if he’d been a little more open it wouldn’t have happened to begin with. What should he make for Clint? He felt like every breakfast and brunch dish he’d ever come up with had evaporated out of his brain.

He had to include pancakes – that much was obvious, so that’s where he decided to start. Something special not on the menu… his hands started grabbing things and he decided on a taster plate with different kinds of silver dollar pancakes. He’d have two of each flavor on the plate. If he was going to include several flavors, he could include the blueberry chocolate chip – even if they were on the menu.

From there, he decided on lemon ricotta pancakes. Those would be light and tender and would pair well with the blueberries. He’d add a small fruit salad with blueberries, melon, and _broiled pineapple_. Hopefully, Clint would notice and think that was funny.

What else? On the other side of the blueberry chocolate chip pancakes, he could do chocolate pancakes with the roasted blood oranges. There wasn’t time to make jam if he wanted Clint’s food to go out with the other plates for that table. If Clint accepted his apology, Brock would owe Clint some fresh, homemade jam.

There needed to be some protein… an omelet with fines herbes, mushrooms, ham, and Gruyere. As Brock plated Clint’s pancakes, he added a side of bacon, nesting it on a frisée salad tossed with a light bacon vinaigrette. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, remembering that Clint had said ‘the frilly stuff’ was how he knew it was fancy.

He carried both Clint’s and Nora Roman’s plates while the waiter for their table carried the rest. He served Ms. Roman first – he’d have to ask Clint her real name, so he didn’t keep embarrassing himself. Smiling, he managed to say something coherent to Ms. Roman before serving Clint.

As he set down Clint’s plate, Brock’s hands were shaking so badly that he was primarily pleased he’d managed to get it onto the table without dumping it in Clint’s lap. Studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone else at the table for the moment, he gestured to Clint’s plate. “You’ve got a trio of silver dollar pancakes, fresh fruit salad, a two-egg omelet, and a side of bacon.” He searched Clint’s face briefly for a reaction rack and not seeing utter rejection there, Brock turned his attention to the rest of the table. “You’ll get a couple racks of toast and a basket of fresh croissants in just a moment. Anything else I can get for you?”

* * *

Natalia saved Clint from needing to speak for the moment by giving her warmest smile and answering, “No, thank you. Everything here looks wonderful. Thank you so much.”

Clint ignored his friends trying to sneak a peek at his plate. _Pancakes._ Brock could have avoided the reminder of that morning by making French toast or just serving something savory and leaving out the sweet side altogether. Was that a little char on the pineapple? _Broiled pineapple_ – Brock had remembered his offhand remark too. Everything rounded out by a frisée salad – to prove it was fancy.

Smiling to himself, his attention snapped to his friends when Bucky elbowed him again. “You gonna eat that or just make eyes at it all afternoon?”

Clint glared at Bucky for a second, “Don’t even think about it, Bucky. This is my,” _special, made just for me_ , “breakfast. None for you.” _Because Brock knows the kinds of things I like._

As he ate, he managed to participate in the conversation at the table. Clint also wondered, though, whether he should forgive so easily. He moaned around a bite of his omelet. “These are the best eggs I’ve ever had.”

Steve chuckled, “You say that every time we try a new restaurant, Clint.”

“This time I really mean it,” Clint grumbled as he grabbed a slice of toast. A bite of egg, some of the salad, and a little bit of toast – Clint was in heaven.

Bucky laughed, “You said that last time too.”

Everyone, Clint included, laughed at that… and then it was just a normal Sunday brunch, with everyone just relaxing with good company, great food, a few mimosas, and truly excellent coffee.

Afterward, Clint waved to everyone as they left. He wanted to talk to Brock – at least to say thank you personally. He gave the waiter an extra twenty bucks to let the _chef_ know that he wanted to talk to him.

That was how Clint found himself in the alley waiting by the restaurant’s delivery door, trying not to fidget. Just as he started to wish that he’d worn a hat and brought gloves, the door opened and Brock stepped out, looking around until his eyes settled on Clint.

“Hey… I just wanted to say thanks for breakfast.” Everything else Clint had thought about saying dried up and blew away.

Brock’s eyes searched his face, “It was good? You liked it?”

Clint smiled tentatively. “Yeah, it was great. Even had broiled pineapple, what more can a guy ask for?” His smile faded again. “I just… wanted to tell you myself instead of …with everybody else.” His voice trailed off and he wished he didn’t sound so lame.

Brock squared his shoulders like he was preparing for a fight. “Does you being here mean I’ve still got a chance with you?”

Clint’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Maybe it wasn’t a fight Brock was steeling himself for. Could it be rejection? _Do not be a doormat. Do not be a doormat_ , Clint silently reminded himself. Heart in his mouth, he said, “I guess it depends on what’s going on with Jack.”

For just a moment, Brock’s jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes, pressing his lips together in a firm line. He leaned with his back against the wall and exhaled heavily before looking back at Clint. “Yeah.” Brock rested his head on the bricks of the wall behind him and sighed. “You deserve that much at least. I still have Mondays off – meet me at the coffee place between your place and mine?”

“The Grind House?” Clint asked doubtfully.

“Huh? No – their coffee’s shit.” Clint thought the way Brock’s nose wrinkled was cute but didn’t think now was the time to say so. Brock continued, “I meant that Perkatory place that opened up. They’re not too bad. Decent pastries too.”

Clint laughed and Brock shot a wary glance at him. Shaking his head, Clint said, “Sorry, it just looked like the coffee pun was causing you physical pain.”

Some of the tension in Brock’s face and body dissipated and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t been able to force myself to try Happy Mugs.”

“The one with the cats?” Clint asked, probably too eagerly, he realized too late. “Their coffee’s too sweet, but the milk tea is good.” He raised his hand and grinned. “Nyan, nyan.”

Chuckling, Brock said, “I should’ve known.” He sighed and looked regretfully at the door back to the bustle of his restaurant’s kitchen. “I gotta get back. Sunday brunch is our busiest shift. See you tomorrow?”

“At Perkatory. Nine o’clock?” Clint asked to confirm a time. Nine was early for him, but sleeping in for Brock with his early-morning restaurant hours.

“Nine’s good. See you then,” Brock replied, reaching over to just brush his fingers over the back of Clint’s hand. Then he opened the delivery door, gave Clint another wave, and was gone.

Clint didn’t skip all the way home, but he felt like he could’ve – not bad for oversleeping on brunch day.

* * *

The next morning, Clint dragged himself out of bed. He’d only fallen asleep a couple of hours ago, but if he didn’t want to be late (and he didn’t), he needed to get ready to leave now. Twenty minutes later, he was out the door, shoelaces still untied.

Fifteen minutes’ walk in the crisp morning air didn’t wake him up. The cold just made him feel irritable. _It’s for a good cause_ , he reminded himself. As soon as he opened the door, though, he saw Brock peel himself away from a stand-up counter by the window and the grouchiness fell away.

“Morning – you been here long?” He asked as he tried to shake off some of the chill he’d brought in with him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Brock admitted, “so I got here an hour or so ago. I read the free paper, caught up on my email, and probably drank too much coffee.”

“A full morning already, huh?” Clint laughed.

“You could say that, I guess,” Brock said with a smile, handing him a cup. “It’s just drip coffee that I added milk to. If you want anything else, you need to do it yourself.” Then he frowned and looked up at Clint apologetically and rubbed the back of his neck. “Like I said, I didn’t really sleep last night… I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole.”

“Water under the bridge… as long as it’s not decaf. I didn’t sleep great last night either, so if this is decaf, heads are gonna roll,” Clint promised and gave Brock a dark look before breaking into a smile. “Some things are just unforgivable, you know?”

Brock laughed, “I admit to being a bastard, but I’m not uncivilized. I wouldn’t do that to you, I promise.” It was nice seeing Brock smile, Clint thought to himself. Brock’s smile faded a bit. “But speaking of promises… I said yesterday that I’d explain about Jack today…. You up for a little field trip up to the Bronx?”

Clint shrugged, “Sure, that’s fine with me. I’ve got all day if we need it.”

Taking a deep breath, Brock said, “All right then, let’s go. I got a car in the garage down the block.”

After they’d pulled out and driven for a few minutes, Brock glanced at him. “Hey, you aren’t squeamish about cemeteries, are you?”

“Uh… no?” Clint said, though his voice ended on a questioning note. “…Should I be worried?” He was trying to be funny, but then worried that he was being too glib about something that was probably fairly serious.

“Nah. Just figured I’d ask before we got there and avoid any panic attacks or whatever.” Brock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, whether he was impatient or nervous – or both – Clint couldn’t tell.

He wanted to reach out and reassure Brock, but also didn’t want to distract him from the road either. “All my family’s buried back in Ohio. You met my local family yesterday. Steve, Bucky, Natalia – she writes as Nora Roman- and her partner, Pepper are the closest that I’ve got to family. Better than most of the blood relatives I’ve got anyway. Except I’ve got a sister upstate, who’s all right.”

Brock was quiet for longer than Clint had anticipated, and he hoped the personal info hadn’t been too much just now. When Brock spoke, just another moment later, he said, “I’m glad you’ve got people out here you can count on.”

Clint changed the subject then to tell Brock about the stray dog he was trying to lure into becoming his dog. He was just finishing the story when they pulled into Woodlawn Cemetery’s parking area. “And the only thing he’ll eat is pizza!”

Brock laughed, “Sounds like you two will be very happy together. What’re you gonna call him?”

“Lucky,” Clint said simply.

“You named him, he’s yours. Pretty sure that’s how that works at least,” Brock said with a smile and taking a deep breath, got out of the car. He popped the trunk and retrieved several evergreen arrangements. “You mind carrying one?”

“Not at all,” Clint replied, though he was more curious since there were three of them by his count.

Brock led them through the cemetery to a section with a tree that Clint thought would have flowers in the spring, one of those decorative cherry trees.

“This is it. Jack, this is Clint; Clint, this is Jack,” Brock said, gesturing at one of the headstones. “And his Grandma and Grandpa Rollins and his Uncle Tommy, who neither of us ever met.” Brock set one arrangement for the Grandparents Rollins, one for Uncle Tommy, and let Clint place the last one by Jack’s headstone.

With a start, Clint realized he’d never told Brock his last name. He’d only known Brock’s because Bucky had told him inadvertently. “Barton – I’m Clint Barton.” Clint looked between the gravesite and Brock. “Um…?” This hadn’t been at all what he’d expected.

Brock smiled a little bit, though. “Nice to meet you, Clint Barton. Jack… was my best friend, I guess is what I usually tell people.”

“You lived together?” Clint was pretty sure he’d put that together correctly at least.

“Yeah. I mean don’t get me wrong, we screwed around and slept together, but I never said he was my boyfriend or partner or anything.” Brock shoved his hands in his coat pockets and pressed his lips together.

Clint wondered what that meant. Obviously, Jack was important to Brock, but Clint was having a hard time parsing their relationship. “…Did _he_ call you his boyfriend?” Clint asked tentatively.

“He called me his partner, ‘cause the whole ‘boyfriend’ thing just kind of rubs me the wrong way.” Brock’s shoulders drooped, “I just get uncomfortable with all that lovey-dovey stuff. Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, boyfriends… I just don’t get it. If I want to cook for you, why do I need a special day to do it? Or go someplace together. It’s just going somewhere you or I wanted to go anyway and we’re just going together ‘cause it’s more fun than going alone.”

The not-a-dates were starting to make a little more sense now. “He was special to you, though?”

Brock nodded, lips pursed. “Yeah, we met in junior high and we... we’d been –” Brock looked up at the sky for a second, sniffed, and went on, “we were friends after that – until his accident.” He glanced at Clint. “He kissed me after we lost our first varsity football game together…. Let’s just say that opened my eyes to a new world of possibilities.” He chuckled sadly and shook his head, then as an afterthought, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a cheap disposable lighter and set them neatly on the corner of Jack Rollins’ headstone.

Clint reached over and took Brock’s hand and tucked it into his own jacket pocket, their fingers linked. “So you don’t get cold… since neither of us brought gloves.”

“Anyway, I don’t bring people home, generally speaking. I mean why? If it’s just a hook-up, why bother with it? And I realize now that most people don’t think the way I do. They get attached and want to _talk about where the relationship is going_ and I’m usually like, ‘what relationship? I thought we were fucking. What’s there to talk about?’” Brock must have felt him tense up because he studied Clint’s face, then gave Clint’s hand a squeeze.

Clint hoped that he didn’t look like he might throw up on his shoes, because that’s how he felt. The words and reassurances, though, didn’t match what he was hearing as a break-up conversation. “I got attached,” he said softly both as an acknowledgement and as a warning.

“And you like the milk tea from that damn cat café and apparently only own purple socks. It’s just something about you,” Brock said as if that explained everything.

“Okay, maybe I’m not understanding here,” and to his credit, Clint thought, he sounded much more baffled than defensive. “What do you want?”

“For us to be friends.”

“Like you and Jack were friends?” Clint asked.

“No, not just like that – I mean, that’s not very reasonable. You’re you and he’s him, it isn’t fair to compare the two of you. But… I like you and I want to know you better.”

 _There_ that was the ray of sunshine where all this had been leading. “When we know each other better, can I call you my partner?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Brock made a face but didn’t look annoyed with the idea. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for ‘I love you’s’ and candlelight dinners and shit, though.” Brock tugged him back toward the path to the parking lot.

“…But what if…” Clint tried to think of a scenario that could be seen as romantic, “there was a blackout and I told you that I love you over dinner?” Clint asked and peeked at Brock from the corner of his eye.

Brock threw his head back and laughed. “I’d think you were ridiculous, and that it’s a good thing you’re cute.”

“But you already think I’m cute and sometimes ridiculous,” Clint retorted.

“Exactly. Has nothing to do with a bunch of fucking candles. It’s all you pretty,” Brock said and kissed him on the cheek. “You wanna come back to my place? I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.”

Clint hedged as they walked slowly back to the car, “Depends – is your sous chef doing the produce buying tomorrow?”

“I could ask him, if you want.”

“I love y-” Clint looked at Brock sharply. “I mean-”

“You can say it if you mean it, just don’t make it all …squooshy,” Brock said, leaning a little against Clint’s upper arm.

“Well, I was gonna say, I love you, but I’m not waking up at four in the morning for you tomorrow,” Clint said acidly.

Brock laughed again. “What’re you saying now?”

“I love you. And if I really have to, I’ll wake up early, but I won’t like it,” Clint tried and failed not to pout.

“Okay, okay, I’ll call Barry and see if he can switch for tomorrow morning.”

Clint kissed Brock on the temple, “Thank you.”

“Sure, sure. Get in the car, Romeo. I’ll turn up the heat for you,” Brock said as they reached the car and extracted his hand from Clint’s pocket.

“I’ve got no doubt about that,” Clint replied with a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this! I had a great time writing it. :D This was a ship I hadn't considered until I read cassandrasfisher's idea for their art. :) Thanks again to @cassandrasfisher, @flightyrock, and the MRBB mods for creating such a fantastic event!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think of this! :D


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